What the hell was he doing? He asked himself this very
same question every time he came here. And he never liked
the answer.
He was here because he wanted what he couldn't have –
what he had promised to never touch. Would never dream of
defiling.
Laughter echoed in his ears – loud and unwelcome. It
stirred memories of that night long ago when he'd felt cold
steel lay open the steaming warmth of his cheek. It reminded
him that he was alone while more than a hundred people
gathered beneath him, just out of his reach. He didn't like
people, and that feeling only intensified when they gathered
in groups like vultures hovering over a dying stag.
If he didn't find her soon, he would have to leave. Find
relief in more auspicious and unsavory environs.
And then, like the answer to a prayer he'd never uttered,
he spied her.
Grey leaned forward in the box, fingers curling around
the smooth, cool brass rail. There, in the glittering meadow
of hothouse flowers was a wild bloom of a woman who quite
literally robbed him of all breath.
Time ground to a halt, as did the beating of his heart.
She wore a low cut gown the same vibrant burgundy of a
rose just past first bloom. The tiny sleeves were trimmed
with the same bronze lace that flitted around the rest of
the gown, and sat low on her creamy round shoulders. From
where he stood – when had he left his chair? – he could see
the deep valley of her cleavage, the swells of her beautiful
breasts flushed under the chandeliers.
The snug bodice of her gown hugged her across the ribs,
nipped in sharply at the waist and then flared over hips and
a backside that didn't need the little flouncy bustle to
draw his attention there.
His gaze lifted, and his heart began to beat once more as
he took in the coffee darkness of her hair shimmering with
the faintest hint of copper beneath the twinkling light. Her
skin was the right shade of ivory, her hair the correct
color and thickness, twisted into a high, loose knot.
Beneath the bronze lace mask her nose had just the right
tilt, and her mouth--her mouth was ripe and plump, just
begging to be kissed.
Christ in heaven. If he didn't know better he'd swear
this woman – this dream – was truly Rose.
But it couldn't be. Rose was a single young woman. She
would never come there alone, and no one who knew her would
bring such a gently bred young woman to a masked ball meant
for seduction. Everyone familiar with Saint's Row knew what
happened at these private functions. And there was no way a
lady as sheltered and removed from London as Rose Danvers
could ever pass through these doors. No, this wasn't Rose,
but she was as close a twin as he could ever imagine – ever
hope to find.
And he'd be damned if he'd stand there any longer,
staring like an idiot and give some other man a chance to
have her.